


Leaving

by otter



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're tempted to say, 'what?' and play that game you've played a thousand times, but time is short. So you say, "You said this wasn't going to end well. Were you talking about the alliance, or were you talking about us?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving

You find Jack in his office, staring moodily at the file folders on his desk. He's looking a little too squeaky-clean this morning, a little too rigid, like he was when you first met him and he liked to snarl at you a lot.

You say, "Hi," and he says nothing at all. He doesn't even look at you. You press on anyway, because you'd never want it to get around that this kind of thing can actually hurt. "I was just stopping to say goodbye... I leave in about ten minutes."

He finally blinks and stares up at you, but there's nothing behind that look. "Okay," he says. "See you." He says it like he doesn't expect to see you again, ever.

"I'll only be gone four months," you say. If there's a little desperation in your voice, it's only because you've never felt so desperate in your life. "Once we get through the most delicate stages of the negotiations--"

"This isn't going to end well," he interrupts. You don't think he was listening, anyway. "This isn't the answer."

You're not sure what that means, and you're not sure you want to ask, but you sit down in the single chair in front of his desk, and you very carefully ask, "Jack, what are we talking about, here?"

He blinks again, and frowns at you like you're some other lifeform entirely, whose motives he can't even begin to comprehend. "What?"

You're tempted to say, 'what?' and play that game you've played a thousand times, but time is short. So you say, "You said this wasn't going to end well. Were you talking about the alliance, or were you talking about us?"

Whichever he was speaking of, it's obvious that the other hadn't even crossed his mind. He scowls at you and folds his hands on top of his desktop blotter, as if this is just another boring meeting with just another boring scientist. "I was speaking in the future tense," he says. His tone of voice is the same kind he might use to address a dim-witted five-year-old. "So I can't be talking about us, can I? We're already over."

"Jack--"

"Daniel."

You're not a violent man -- at least, you like to think you aren't, and you don't like to think about the fact that maybe you are, now -- but in that moment you want nothing more than to hit him. He's talking about personal things, private and intimate things, but he's wearing that hard, blank poker face. It hasn't been directed at you in years. You wonder just when he lost his firm handle on duty and the costs thereof.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," you say, because it's the truth and you can't think of anything that sounds better. "I won't be gone that long. It's not like--"

"You're gone already," he says, and the poker face finally slips, the hard and steady voice drops into a growl. "This damned alliance is going to cost us more than any of you realize, but nobody believes me when I say it. You don't even trust me that much."

You can appreciate passion. That, you understand. That, you can meet. You spring out of your chair, hands waving of their own accord, your own mouth twisted into a grimace. "Give me a break, Jack! You're going to sulk because nobody believes you? Big deal! How many times have you dismissed me out of hand? When I went to that alternate universe, you thought I was crazy even though I had the staff wound to prove it. And when Ma'chello's bug was making me nuts, you just locked me up and threw away the key! Don't you tell me about trust, Jack, because I've gotten little enough of it from you and I still fucking love you anyway!"

You know it's the wrong thing to say even as it's coming out of your mouth, but you're helpless to stop it. And when it's out there, hanging in the air between you, it turns itself into a silence that envelopes the whole room and squeezes the air from your lungs. He's staring at you again and you know that you were standing on the brink, that you've just jumped.

"You're going to be late," he says, deadly calm and deadly quiet.

You're right. You know you are. But you've just said a word you're not supposed to say and crossed a line you're not supposed to cross. "You won't be here when I get back, will you?"

You aren't sure whether he's even going to tell you, because he's giving you that hard look again. He finally stands, walks to the door, and opens it for you in an obvious invitation to get the hell out. When you don't move, he finally says, "No, I won't be here. I'm not too popular with the folks upstairs right now. It's time to retire again. Practice makes perfect."

You stand, and something in your gut twists because he looks relieved, looks like he'll only be able to relax when you're gone, not just from his office but from his planet, too. You pull the door from his hand and swing it shut again, push him up against it, press your mouth against his. Your tongue flickers against his teeth, and he responds for a moment, helpless, before he shoves you away. He pushes so hard that you stagger back and nearly trip over the chair before you find your balance.

He says, "Goddamn you, Daniel. You made your choice. This one's too big to let you have it both ways." Then he opens the office door, grabs you by the scruff of the neck like a stray dog he just can't get rid of, and thrusts you bodily out into the hallway. His office door shuts in your face.

"Well," someone says. "That was a little excessive."

You can feel your cheeks burning, and the tips of your ears, and you wish -- not for the first time -- that you didn't have such fair skin to advertise your embarrassment to the world.

"We should get going," you say, pretending that you aren't copping out completely.

Joe's staring at you with this look that says he knows exactly what the problem is, but his eyes are sympathetic and you know he won't tell anyone, not even Sam.

If you were a stronger man, a better man, you'd probably tell Joe to go without you. You'd stay here and hammer on Jack's door until he opened it again, and then you'd argue with Jack until he got so tired of you that he'd finally concede and let you kiss him again. After that you'd do other things, things that are even better than kissing, and eventually everything would be okay between you again.

You know that unless you're strong and good and smart right now, at this exact instant, then you've lost him completely.

But right now you aren't strong or good or smart. You're aching and burning and so, so tired.

Joe offers you a small, tight smile, and pats your back awkwardly. Then he loops that arm around your shoulders and tugs you away from Jack's office, away from Jack. Joe says, "Come on, Daniel. The Aschen delegation is waiting."

He leads you toward the embarkation room, and you count your steps because it's easier than thinking about any of the things you should be thinking about, and you think that maybe you'll count yourself to sleep tonight, too, because you're so, so tired.

the end


End file.
